Monday, May 14

A Little Self-Plagiarism Never Hurt Nobody.

The staff here at CDP World Headquarters (pictured above) wanted to spotlight 3 quick stories that had been published on the CDP in years past, but since buried or tucked away beneath hundreds of other posts. Through a sophisticated and thorough dig through the CDP Archives, these 3 tales (long since determined 'lost') have resurfaced and are now being given the proper treatment they previously deserved. We wanted to republish them today for 3 main reasons:

A) We have nothing better to put up.B) They were funny and overlooked.C) We have nothing better to blah-bloo-blah-BLAH.

This is proof positive that not only is the Missus the perfect woman for me, but also that there's something seriously wrong with her.

We were watching Wheel of Fortune last night, and the final puzzle was on. Concentrating heavily on the show, the two of us hadn't really said anything to each other for about 5 minutes. The category was "Thing", and the puzzle looked like this:

_ _ R _ _ _ _

My brow furrowed, wondering what it could possibly be. The Missus, in all seriousness and concentration, looks over at me and confidently says...

"Fartbag."

I damn near spit out my chocolate milk. Before I had the chance to catch my breath and explain to her that she just made up a non-existent and potentially vulgar word, the contestant selected some letters, and the puzzle now looked something like this:

_ AR _ BO _

Looking a bit embarrassed, the Missus soon saw the error of her ways.

"Oh!" She said. "Fartbox."

I could go on for hours with all the reasons why this was funny to me; the timing, the sheer audacity, but I think you get the picture. She's a good woman, and I love her dearly.

Watching David Blaine's show on Monday reminded me of the greatest card trick I'd ever pulled off. I was in the 7th grade, and I threw a party for all of my friends at my Grandma's house. Being the eager-to-please host, I handed out sodas and generous slices of pizza, telling jokes and performing magic tricks to the content crowd.

I was quite the magician in my time, as you would probably assume. It's been a while since I've busted out the playing cards, but I think I could still throw down with the best of them.

Anyways, in what would be my last trick of the night (you have to go out on a high note), I told my friend to pick a card out of the deck and show his friends. It was the three of hearts, and everyone made certain that I did not see it when he thrust it back into the deck. I began to do my little routine where I cracked wise while I did my slight of hand, but something went wrong about halfway through. I lost track of the three of hearts, and I knew that I had to abort the trick.

A little frustrated and embarrassed, I announced that I had to start the trick over, and had my friend shuffle the deck about six times. I then told him to pull out a new card at random and once again show it to his friends.

When he pulled the card out, the room got really silent, jaws dropped and focused directly on me. "Woah, how did you do that?" he said.

"Do what?" I shot back, as he turned the card over to reveal the three of hearts.

The poor bastard actually pulled the same card twice.

"Thank you and goodnight!" I said, snatching the cards and making a beeline for the door.

This exit would have been far more dramatic had it not been my own house, as I had to quietly enter a little while later when nobody was looking.

First impressions are very important, and I'm the undisputed King and Master of peeing them straight down my leg.

At work on Tuesday, a new employee was about to come over to my cubicle and introduce herself to me. She knew I was sort of a big deal, and probably wanted an autograph or something. It just so happened to be Halloween, so she was wearing a Prom Night-style costume; like a dead prom queen or something. She looked great, although I still haven't seen her in the office without the bloody makeup and tattered dress. Maybe I just made her up, and she doesn't really work here.

Anyways, she poked her head in just as I was taking a huge bite out of a BK Veggie Burger (along with a king-size fry and a chocolate shake; I'm trying to watch what I eat). As she kindly said hello (while cradling a bloody, plastic baby in her arms), I bit down and shot about a quart of mayo and barbecue sauce out of the ass-end of said burger, spooting it all over my important documents and literature.

As it were, she now thinks that the cleanest and most obsessive-compulsive man in the office is the filthiest and messiest. I'm sure of it.

You just watch. Over the next few weeks, I'll try to engage in conversation with her, making several attempts to prove to her just how organized and anti-mayo-spootage I actually am. However, karma being what it is, I'll just find more ways to solidify her first impression of me. Toner will splash liberally onto my pants. Newspaper ink will smear across my white shirt. Cream cheese and coffee will bombard me from all angles.

I'm the office slob to her, and no amount of organizing my Hi-Liters by color will undo that. This is precisely the sort of stuff that keeps me up at night, straightening my carpet fibers one at a time.

Thanks for enjoying recent nostalgia with me. Sound off in the comments section and enjoy 'yer Monday.

And my guess would've been Fartboy. Second cousin to Batboy ... who was found in a cave, according to the supermarket tabloids. Did the bat child ever grow up, by the way? We used to hear so much about him ... and now ... like Kaiser Soze ... he just vanished. Hmm.